


A Gift for Mrs. Pollifax

by Adina



Category: Mrs. Pollifax - Dorothy Gilman
Genre: Gen, Stealth Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-17
Updated: 2005-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 01:44:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1624937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adina/pseuds/Adina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes fate needs a little nudge to set the train in motion--or to keep it in motion.  Set after the first book.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Gift for Mrs. Pollifax

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Zelda Ophelia

 

 

Four objects were spread out on the desk blotter like evidence in a criminal case.

Exhibit A: a box, now empty, still partially wrapped in brown paper on which an address could be read:

_Mr. Carstairs and Mr. Bishop_   
_CIA Headquarters_   
_Langley, Virginia_

The writing was tidy and easy to read. The return address was New Brunswick, New Jersey.

Exhibit B: the string that had once wrapped the box, cut rather than untied in case the knots had significance. Stranger codes were known.

Exhibit C: a lab report, stating that the specimen had been tested for a lengthy list of poisons and drugs and was innocent of the same. A handwritten scrawl at the bottom added _Lotsa booze, tho._

Exhibit D: a Christmas fruitcake, with one tiny slice removed for analysis.

The man behind the desk leaned back in his chair, meditating on the still-life in front of him. After a time his right hand left his pursed lips to break off a crumb of fruitcake and bear it back to his mouth.

The guys in the lab were right; a generous hand had applied the brandy.

***

It was the Friday before Christmas and all through the train--

Bishop shook his head at the fancy. There were plenty of creatures stirring inside the train, mutinous commuters and shoppers from New York anxious to get home to their families in more congenial locations; it was the train itself that was immobile, stranded in Newark. A tree was blocking the track, though it might as easily have been a cow from what he could hear of the crackly announcement over the tannoy.

The doors sighed open, letting in frigid blasts of air from the platform. Another announcement blared out, doubly unintelligible coming from platform speakers as well as the train. A uniformed conductor stepped in the open door.

"All passengers will please disembark," he called. "There will be a one-hour delay while the track is cleared. The train will leave the station at 6:55." He stepped away quickly before he could be accosted by the throng of angry passengers.

"Damn." Looking at his watch, Bishop saw that the railroad's 'hour' was closer to an hour and a half. He'd finished meeting with his contact in New York at five and had hoped to be back to Langley in time for a late supper. Now it looked like he'd be better off eating here--not that Newark was known for its fine dining.

The first sight of the platform sign stopped him in his tracks, earning him season's greetings--New York style--from the package-laden shopper behind him. He allowed her to push him to the side, out of the stream of similarly joyful passengers, while he checked the sign again.

New Brunswick. Not Newark at all, though he could see how the announcer and the tannoy could turn one into the other. The sight of a hat improbably decorated with feathers made him laugh, even if the woman under it was too large, too young, and too ordinary to be Mrs. Pollifax--not that Mrs. Pollifax wasn't the most ordinary looking woman in the world when you first saw her.

"Good to see someone happy about all this," a British and vaguely fruity voice beside him said, pulling his attention away from the woman who really looked nothing at all like Mrs. Pollifax. The man beside him was dressed in a quiet, well-tailored suit that still managed to look faintly dusty.

Bishop wasn't in the habit of striking up conversations with random strangers--it wasn't something the Company encouraged--but the man seemed pleasant enough. "Not happy, no. I'd rather be getting home. But--" He shook his head. It would be impossible--not to mention a security violation--to describe Mrs. Pollifax, the hat-wearing and fruitcake-baking grandmother of four and erstwhile international courier.

"Thinking of looking up a friend while you're here?"

Bishop gave the man a sharp look. Said the wrong way that could be taken as a come-on from a pimp or hustler. The man returned his look with a level and amazingly innocent gaze of his own.

Visiting Mrs. Pollifax would be seven kinds of inappropriate, almost as inappropriate as her fruitcake had been, compromising her cover for no good reason. Not that she was likely ever to get another assignment, of course, not after the near-fiasco of her first--only!--mission. Even if she did she would be crazy to accept it. It really wouldn't do any harm to visit an _ex_ -courier, now, would it? If nothing else he could talk her out of sending fruitcake to Langley.

"You know, I think I am."

***

Roses seemed somehow unsuitable for Mrs. Pollifax, too big, too obvious, and lacking in subtlety. Daisies were too ordinary, baby's breath too bridal, chrysanthemums too funereal. Appearing on her doorstep without flowers of any sort was simply unthinkable. Bishop briefly considered orchids, suspecting Mrs. Pollifax would appreciate the exotic touch in prosaic New Brunswick, but only until he spotted the violets lurking in the back of the florist's refrigerator.

Violets. His mother had planted violets when he was a child. They looked so delicate, so fragile, like a harsh word alone would destroy them, but once rooted they were indestructible. If you thought they were gone from one part of the garden you had only to wait until they popped up, hale and hearty, in another part entirely. Carstairs's face had been a study in astonishment when Mrs. Pollifax had calmly pulled the deck of cards and their laminated codes from her purse.

Bishop hurriedly ordered one bunch, then a second when one seemed too small.

Mrs. Pollifax's apartment was only a short walk from the station, though the icy streets made it longer. Taking the violets out from under his coat, he held them in his left hand as he knocked. Time stretched with no answer, the violets looking sad and small rather than brave and enigmatic, as it became painfully obvious that Mrs. Pollifax was not at home. She had a son, he vaguely remembered; she must be spending the holiday with his family. She might even be out shopping, along with the rest of the crowds thronging the streets. He had no reason, no right to expect her to be waiting in her apartment for him.

He was turning away in defeat when a brisk voice spoke from behind him.

"Are you looking for Emily?"

Turning he found a woman of Mrs. Pollifax's years, but without her easy smile, standing in the doorway of the apartment opposite. He stood up straight, feeling her evaluate his posture, the shine on his shoes, and the cost of his haircut. "Yes, ma'am," he said, laying on the charm that usually won him the affection of older women, though Mrs. Pollifax's neighbor seemed as little susceptible to it as that leggy blonde he'd met at the French Consulate in November. "William Bishop, friend of the family. My train was delayed and I thought I would look her up and thank her for the amazing fruitcake she sent last week." The fruitcake was already legendary after its appearance at the Christmas party.

The woman thawed enough to offer her hand. "Grace Hartshorne. _Miss_ Grace Hartshorne. Emily and I have been neighbors for years."

If she had been Mrs. Pollifax, he might have amused her by bowing over her hand, but Miss Hartshorne did not seem one to appreciate either the old-fashioned courtesy or the humor. He gave her hand a business-like clasp and released it. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am."

Miss Hartshorne unbent further. "Emily is at an exercise class of some sort." She gave what was not quite a sniff. "I suggested she join my swimming class on Wednesdays, but she said it interfered with her garden club meetings. At our age it's important to get regular exercise to keep the blood and bowels moving."

"At any age," Bishop agreed in a sort of fascinated horror.

Miss Hartshorne acknowledged that with a nod. "Her class was over fifteen minutes ago, so she should be home soon if she doesn't dawdle." Dawdling was clearly one of the deadly sins in Miss Hartshorne's book. The door at the end of the hall opened; Miss Hartshorne looked at her watch and nodded in approval as Mrs. Pollifax emerged.

She was wearing a sensible dark blue wool coat that reached to her calves, and a matching hat that was rather less sensibly decorated with a spray of truncated peacock feathers above her right ear. She looked indecently healthy, with a pink glow to her cheeks and a spark in her eyes that brightened, if such a thing were possible, when she saw him.

"Mr. Bishop! How very good to see you again!" She offered her hand and this time he did bow over it, earning a chuckle from her.

"You are well, Mrs. Pollifax?" He shook his head. "Not that I need to ask. You look--" Wonderfully recovered, he of course could not say, though even immediately after her week-long ordeal, covered in dust and smelling of sheep, she had still managed to look calm and in control. No wonder Farrell called her the duchess. "--very healthy," he finished lamely.

Miss Hartshorne took her departure and Mrs. Pollifax ushered him into a small but comfortable apartment. As soon as the door was shut she turned towards him with an air of anticipation and he realized the pleasure of seeing him wasn't the only--or even the main--cause of the bright sparkle in her eyes.

"Sorry, Mrs. Pollifax," he said, amazed that she would even consider another job after the last. "This is purely social." He offered the violets in consolation. "My train was delayed, and when I found myself in New Brunswick I just had to look you up."

She took the disappointment in good part, along with the violets. She wore her thoughts on her face, but she was so sincerely nice, interested in everything and everyone around her, that it was almost a disguise in itself. Really, if something right for her talents came up again he would have to suggest her again to Carstairs.

She smiled, showing more dimple than any other courier in the history of the CIA. "So how are you, Mr. Bishop? And Mr. Carstairs?"

***

Back at the train-station the gentleman Bishop had been talking to consulted his list, ticking it twice with great satisfaction. One task of his own successfully completed, and another done for Crowley since he was here in America anyway. He had mitigated the inconvenience to the passengers as much as the letter of the Arrangement allowed, if not precisely in keeping with the spirit. Really he would have to make it up to the dear boy somehow.

Aziraphale looked into the shop window beside him. Maybe Crowley would like one of those new-fangled permanent-press shirts? It _was_ the Christmas season, after all.

 

 

 


End file.
